


Bruises in Bloom

by Amaranthecstasy



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, F/M, Food Porn, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Rough Sex, Seduction, Strangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 10:34:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1547528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amaranthecstasy/pseuds/Amaranthecstasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If the Ripper is killing, you can bet Hannibal Lecter is having a dinner party."<br/>The sweet seduction of Alana Bloom. Short character study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruises in Bloom

The knife slipped through his fingers, dark liquid draining into the sink as he wiped a cool blade on his palm. The marinade, an infusion of rapeseed oil, three types of vinegar and wild berries dripped a dark, imposing stain across the worktop. Deftly the blade found its place. There was barely any contact as the meat succumbed under its fine, delicate edge. Pale, dimpled flesh, shuddering a sigh of relief as the outer layer was sliced cleanly away.

Finally she could breathe.

His eyes fixed on the movements as he cut through fat, reaching the tender moist tissue beneath. He always made a conscious effort not to bruise the meat. Nothing more than superficial serrations were ever necessary. He slammed the knife against the chopping board, a clean cut through the oesophagus, where his hands had embraced her. The sweetest of dishes, in his opinion, held the key to life. If lungs were the entrée, the main course would be heart. His fingers probed through the flesh, purifying it, ridding of all gristles and tendon, and placed the dish into a pan on a low, steady heat.

               

* * *

 

He stood before the mirror thinking into himself. His hands removed the red spotted shirt and replaced it with a clean one, the cotton buzzed under his fingertips as he drew the buttons closed over his broad chest. The tie fell graciously around his neck, found its home under the neatly turned down collar. Waistcoat nestled into the small of his back and whispered as the silk met the lining of his velvet jacket. Carefully he pushed back the hair let astray over his brow from the excessive energy of that afternoon and smiled at his work.

When guests began to arrive, dripping in like a slow drug, meandering between canapés and notes of music emanating from the record player, he took his place on the floor.

Preparation was complete; dinner would be served at eight.

He greeted and smiled and made small talk with little effort. Colleagues, acquaintances and old friends mingled about, the latter keeping greater distance from him than the rest. The further one stands from the painting, the clearer it is to see what you are looking at.

 

She was chosen the moment she walked in the door, as his eyes landed on her as if she were sculpted in honey.

Her name was Dessert.

 

Dessert had long dark hair that did little until it reach the crook of her shoulder blades where it curled up like a hidden message tamed by heated tongs. She wore a fitted dress of astral blue, showing little skin, but a low neckline. His eyes trained on her as she moved between the groups, talking, laughing. He was already divining a more appropriate dressing for her.

The main course was brought out on silver platters and distributed between the guests. Oxtail and courgette skewers with a wild berry sauce as it was formally introduced. Though he engaged in the social event he touched nothing, having eaten previously and spared the pretences.

She was approachable, standing in the centre of the room. Not the dazzle in the darkness to which all are drawn but amicable, her scent alone left him enraptured. He stepped close behind but she was unaware of his visceral intimacy. He could smell her, the floral perfume, the sebaceous scent of her hair, shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, the wine on her breath, even the taste of the other girl as she allowed him to kiss her.

She was perfect, melding to his every motion, bending each way as he touched her. Coming close when he needed it, but shying back when he coaxed her away. Her lips were swollen but her eyes flashed with a desperate passion, one that he felt with a churning ache in the pit of his empty stomach.

She spread herself on his bed with ease; he let the corners of his mouth rise briefly at such a shameless invitation. He kissed her with hunger and she accepted all, sending back with greater fury.

 

But he would not touch her - could not.

She could not be sullied.

 

When she wrapped her arms around his head, coaxing with her hips, he watched her eyes float upwards, eyelashes fluttering like spider legs.

She was so beautiful; he wanted to hold that beauty.

 

Slowly, dreadfully, his hands slid up her thigh paving a way of goosebumps into the curve of her ribcage. She sighed as he stroked her arm and lingered his fingertips along the serrated angle of her collar bone.

His gaze stayed fixed, there was one chance, it had to be clean.

His fingers traced the line of her neck, massaging the jugular. She moaned gently, encouragingly.

She wanted this.

 

She did not notice immediately, as his grip on her tightened. She wriggled first in a slurred dance of lust, but her eyes gradually opened. The sparkle electrified as she looked at him, the truth replaced all with fear as she suddenly fought, but he was long gone. There was nothing to plead with in those vast grey eyes.

Contractions throbbed every other second. When they slipped under sweat and strain, his thumbs left purple ink blots on her milky skin, a minor imperfection.

 

He waited until she left. It took several cold, bare minutes. When he squeezed the last drop from her, when her chest collapsed and failed to rise, then he woke up. Shuddering, crying, staring down at her body beneath him.

Gently he collected himself, wiping his face on the backs of his hands as his breathing slowed, muscles relaxing.

A sweet nectar of strawberries on his lips turned to tar as he stood, shaking slightly. There was no time to waste.

 

Head lowered, eyes raised, he headed for the kitchen and quickly returned, burdened with an ice cream scoop.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I love Alana, but seriously Hannibal. There is a reason people do not sex in the kitchen.


End file.
